


Water

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ficlet, M/M, Post Star Trek: Into Darkness, Self-Lubrication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 18:13:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock struggles in the wake of Jim’s recovery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Water

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for arminaa's "Kirk/Spock, with Spock crying during sex." prompt on the [Star Trek ID Kink Meme](http://strek-id-kink.livejournal.com/1695.html?thread=66975#t66975), which basically called for Spock to cry during sex.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s still too much to know, not to see or hear or feel it but _know_ that Jim’s alright. There’re so many times in the hospital where it doesn’t seem like he’ll make it—a Tribble isn’t a human. Dr. McCoy does everything he can, of course, flittering around Jim’s bed like he’s tethered there with invisible string, the same stuff that binds Spock’s feet firmly in place every time he sees those blue eyes stir. When they first opened, clear and bright as they always were, Spock’s throat had caught in his lungs. 

He’d thought Jim was dead. _Dead_. He’d watched Jim die, poisoned from the inside out, for the sake of all of them. It was the only logical thing to do. But all Spock had thought at the time was no, no, _no_ , not _Jim_ , take anyone else but not Spock’s _captain._ The rage that had built in him was something no amount of meditation could ever quell. His defenses, his walls, his restraint fell beneath the storm, a damn crumbling under a tumultuous river burning far too hot. Spock’s fingertips had itched to feel Khan’s windpipe crushing beneath them. He wasn’t Vulcan. He was an animal. 

An animal’s who’s other half had died. Sometimes he still shakes when he thinks about it. Tucked into corners, behind columns, never to let another see. Not even the doctor, not even Nyota. Not even Spock’s father, though he asks. Sarek could never understand. He lost Amanda, but she wasn’t _Jim_ , and he didn’t even cry. Spock didn’t either. 

But those tears were in him. He let them out in the form of sweat and the taste for blood and vengeance, and even when he waited in the hospital chair by Jim’s bed, his blood had boiled unsteadily beneath his skin. He withdrew from Nyota, because the loss had made him realize where everything he was truly lay, in the bed beneath the eyelids of a coma patient. It was an amicable breakup, one to which he didn’t spare a second thought. Everything he had was on Jim, Jim, Jim, _Jim_ , wake up, _please_. He’d considered melds, even as ill-advised as they were, and reached out with his thoughts anyway from where he sat.

And then Jim had woken up, and Spock had thought that perhaps he would be a Vulcan again. Reasonable, and under control. 

He went to lunch with Jim. A quaint little patio restaurant, ordering salads and light food. Take care of him, Dr. McCoy had said. That’s all Spock ever does. Jim stumbled once—Spock helped him up. 

From the restaurant to Jim’s apartment. He had to go, of course—he was looking after Jim—only duty—and he couldn’t let go once he was holding Jim, alive under his fingers. In the doorway, Spock hesitated. Hesitates again. He’s used to it, now. The clothes all over the floor, the dirty dishes on the counter, the single PADD sticking out of a flowerpot. A mess. Jim’s a mess. Spock helps him to the bed. Spock fixes him tea—not synthesizer food but real _tea_ , while Jim comms everyone he knows and says he’s alright. Spock is with him. 

Spock waits in the corner. Back against the headboard. Leaning on pillows. He’s already taken his shoes off, legs on the blankets, calmly waiting for orders from his captain. Jim paces absently, then wanders back to the bed, bent over his communicator. He sits down with his feet over the edge, back to Spock. Back in his grey uniform. Spock watches the way his shoulder blades flex when he bends forward, spine curving beautifully down the length of his body. His yellow hair catches in the light, soft and luminescent. Jim glances over his shoulder with a little smirk, saying, “Yeah, Bones, he’s still here, I’ll be fine.” Jim’s eyes are full of thanks, and Spock simply watches him. 

It takes a good while before everyone who needs to know that Jim Kirk lives knows. Jim finishes his tea and nibbles a few snacks, and he goes to the washroom, and he slips out of his jacket. 

Then he collapses heavily onto the bed, bouncing a few millimeters. His arms are outstretched and he’s watching the ceiling, sighing, like this is all okay and he didn’t just _almost die._

And Spock’s breathing is coming too shallowly again, because he thought of it, when he knows he shouldn’t. His jaw clenches, and he wills the thoughts away, trying to send his blood pressure back down. It’s okay. _Jim’s okay._

Jim turns to look at him, a big, beautiful smile all across that warm face. The fading light washes over his smooth skin; he’s the brightest of stars. 

All Jim says is, “Thanks.”

Spock merely nods. There isn’t anything to say: nothing that won’t betray him. Jim pushes up on his elbows, climbing back up again, his plain, white t-shirt stretching across his chest. He climbs to the headboard and turns, sitting down next to Spock. Right next to Spock. So close that their arms and their legs are touching, and Jim leans in to ask quietly, as though for more privacy in an already private home, “If I had died... would you have missed me?”

Spock _did_ miss him. Incredibly and inexplicably, like a direct family member or a spouse of several dozen years. He’s spent so little time with Jim in retrospect, such a small fraction of his life. And yet... he didn’t do enough with that short time. Opening his mouth, Spock says slowly, “The Enterprise... would not be the same without its captain.”

“You’d be its captain.” Jim grins. His hand shifts from his own knee to Spock’s, squeezing lightly. Their shoulders are touching. Jim’s like a furnace. Or a magnet for Spock’s dark eyes. “You know, when I was on the other side of that glass, dying... it meant a lot for me to know you were there.”

“Jim—” Spock cuts himself off. There’s nothing logical to say. 

Jim turns his body so he’s closer, facing Spock fully, legs brushing over Spock’s for room, hand sliding up Spock’s thigh. Spock’s breath catches, and Jim’s saying so close to him, “I was so hoping to see you. You have no idea what it meant to me when I did. I was so scared...”

 _Spock was so scared._ That’s _not_ okay. Everything that he is makes it wrong—there is no use in fear. But Spock’s half human, and the part of his brain that _cries_ can’t be turned off. He’s trying to keep this all off his face, but he’s sure Jim can see it. Jim’s leaning closer, closer. 

“You were there for me.” It’s barely a whisper. Like Jim was there for Spock. “You’re always there for me. When your older self first told me how much we’d mean to each other, I didn’t know what to think, but now... after everything we’ve been through... Spock, I need you by my side. You’re _everything_...”

Jim’s leaning in, tilting his head. Eyes fluttering closed. 

It’s Spock that lunges forward, smashing their mouths together. His hand darts to Jim’s vibrant hair, and he holds Jim in—it’s wrong, but it feels so _yes_. This is what he wanted. 

Fuck Vulcan. He’ll regret this later. He’s into one of those frenzies in no time where it’s just _fuck_ everything, not Jim but especially _Jim_. Feeling Jim alive and breathing beneath him only solidifies everything he needed so desperately to know. That Jim’s okay. Jim’s fingers are sliding up Spock’s chest, over his thick uniform and up to his neck, running along the collar. Spock’s shamefully the first to moan, his lips parting to give Jim entrance. 

Jim plunges in a tongue, and Spock slips his out to match. They press in the middle, fighting, then caressing, sliding into each other’s mouths, lips opening and closing. Jim tastes like peppermint tea. Jim’s hands are suddenly running all over him, tracing his chest and his abs and meeting at his zipper, tugging it slowly down. Without pulling back, Spock shrugs his way out of the jacket, and Jim’s fingers run down his shirt. 

Jim’s under the hem and sneaking up his stomach: warm skin on skin. Spock moans again, and Jim mirrors it: the perfect sound. Jim’s grinding his body into Spock, and when he pulls his lips away, Spock tries to follow them. 

Jim turns away, muttering quietly, “When I thought I’d lost you in that volcano, I... and then with Khan... when he was threatening you on the ship, and the warp core, when I never though I’d see you again...” Jim gulps. There’s so much _emotion_ in Jim’s voice—nuances Spock doesn’t even understand. “ _Spock_ , I don’t want to waste any more time. Having you by my side... it’s not enough, anymore. I want to know... I want to know that you’re mine...”

“I am yours,” Spock breathes. “Your first officer, your science officer, your commander—”

Jim shakes his head, forehead leaning against Spock’s, breath drifting over Spock’s face. “No, that’s not what I mean. That you’re _mine._ ” His hands run down to Spock’s waist, rubbing around and in front, so there can be no mistake about what he means. Spock tentatively does the same—reaching for and tracing Jim’s hips. He’s so lost in seeing and touching Jim’s body that he doesn’t catch on until Jim asks, “Can we... ah...?”

Spock was under the impression Jim did this all the time. Not the words, of course, not the meaning, but the touching, but now Jim’s so careful, like anything he says might send Spock for the door. Spock’s throat is dry. _He wants Jim more than he’s ever wanted anyone._ He nods, grabbing Jim’s chin for another kiss. 

Jim tugs him by the neck down to the bed. Spock doesn’t so much fall on top of Jim as pounce on top of him, stretching over him and kissing him, grinding him down into the mattress. Spock means to hold himself up—control, he should have _control_ —but he doesn’t. He flattens their bodies together, legs intertwined and arms at work, mouths still going. For a few minutes, they’re just kissing, Jim scrunching up Spock’s shirt and Spock trying to eat Jim whole. Jim worms his way between Spock’s legs, spreading them on purpose and lifting them, placing them to either side of Jim’s body. 

Then Jim flips them around. He pushes and Spock obeys, letting Jim roll on top of him, Jim’s hips grating into his. Jim’s mouth leaves his to kiss the side of his lips, his cheek, his jaw, all the way up to his ear. Jim licks the pointed shell and hisses, “I thought about this when I was lying in the hospital—thought about you all the time...”

Spock thinks of nothing else. He breathes, “Captain...”

Jim pulls back to glance between them, hands running to the waist of Spock’s pants. Spock takes the opportunity to latch onto Jim’s neck: a sensitive spot for many humans. Jim isn’t any different. Spock kisses the line of his throat and scrapes hard teeth along the side, and Jim moans and tilts his head, giving Spock more room to play. Jim’s fingers are tugging down his pants, and Spock lifts his hips off the mattress to help. His hands are shaking. He runs his own down Jim’s body, feeling Jim’s ass and squeezing. Taut and round all at once, perfect. He kneads it and drinks up all of Jim’s heady sounds. Control isn’t something Spock’s retaining a grip on. 

“I want to take you,” Jim mutters. “Want to feel you around me, there for me, always...”

Spock bucks up into Jim. It earns him a groan and lets Jim know he means _yes._ Spock wants to take Jim, too, but another time, when he has more... restraint. He’s a mess right now. A crumbling mess that revolves all around one man, and being this close to Jim, touching Jim, holding Jim, only takes him back to that one time he couldn’t, on the other side of that horrible glass...

Jim’s fingers are running down between his legs, beneath his cock. Spock’s sure he’s hard. Jim makes him that way. Jim puts him in such a state. Jim caresses his body and finds his entrance, pressing and pressing, and Spock lets his body give in, the Vulcan way, his ass stretching properly and wetting itself. Why humans can’t do that, Spock will never know, but someday he’ll have to luxuriate in the process of preparing _Jim._

For now he just arches, impaled on one, then two of Jim’s fingers. They probe him and pry him apart, checking that everything’s alright, nice and ready. He says as steadily as he can manage, “Jim... I am ready...”

Jim descends back down on him. Jim’s arms wrap around his body, mouths back together. Jim pushes inside and Spock _loses it_. It burns and it stings and it’s so good right away, simply because it’s Jim—wonderful, handsome, rapturous Jim—his Jim—who should never, ever be apart from him. Spock’s whole body arches, head thrown back, eyes flickering shut. He can feel Jim _inside_ him, pulsing and wild. 

Then Jim starts to roll his hips, and it’s elation. Jim doesn’t even have to angle; he instinctively knows where to go. He works through Spock’s walls and slides perfectly in and out—the perfect pace, the perfect size, the perfect man. Pleasure is reverberating all down Spock’s body. It’s fogging his head and crawling under his skin. The fullness, the sensations, the hard cock slamming into a bundle of nerves that triggers an avalanche of ecstasy. 

He’s clutching onto Jim for dear life. Jim’s head rests against his, forehead to forehead, noses beside each other, hot breath on each other’s lips. He’s breathing so hard. Jim’s just as bad. Panting and thrusting, slow and wonderful. Savouring every moment they have. He finds Jim’s shoulders and runs down his arms, prying Jim’s wrists away, and Spock entangles their fingers, palms together. Jim gets the picture and holds Spock’s hands down to the blankets, squeezing gently, saying: _I’m here_.

That’s it. Spock’s gone. He thinks of seeing Jim, crumpled and broken on the floor, scared and alone in that horrible death, and it’s all Spock can do to breathe. Everything he’s been holding onto falls through his guard, and he scrunches his eyes closed. It’s too late. He can feel the prickle around his lashes. The tinge of pain in his head. His eyes are too warm, lashes unstable, lids pressing together and trying to hold it in. But the tears get out...

“ _Spock,_ ” Jim says, full of every feeling. Spock bites his lip and shakes his head, looking away. He’s fine. He’s _fine_. He’s a Vulcan and Vulcans don’t cry...

He’s half a man, and all of him wants Jim with everything he has. Jim understands, like he always does, and he kisses the side of Spock’s face tenderly, murmuring, “It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m fine, and I’ll never leave you again...”

Spock nods. He knows. He squeezes Jim’s hands—too hard, too much strength—but Jim just winces and lets him. Then Spock’s fingers slip away, because he needs to hold Jim tight, even through all the too many clothes still on and the too much light in the room and the lack of time they spent discovering this. It doesn’t feel too fast, because even if Spock’s only now admitting it, he always knew. He knows where he belongs. 

Spock licks his lips. He takes a deep breath—it’s hard with Jim’s cock still slowly sliding in and out of him—and he forces his tear ducts shut again. His cheeks are still wet, but Jim leans down to lick them clean. “I cry when I think about losing you, too,” Jim says, and he rests his head next to Spock’s, their cheeks flush together. Spock holds Jim _so tight_.

Spock isn’t surprised when it’s him first. Ashamed, yes, but surprised, no. It’s Jim’s tongue that does it, tracing his ear, cock buried deep inside him. Spock’s mouth opens wide and he gasps, tossing his head aside and letting the pleasure ride through him. It pools in his stomach, and his balls tighten, and Jim’s fingers wrap around his cock at the perfect time, holding him steady and helping him along. He shoots right onto Jim’s stomach, while Jim groans and keeps stroking him, milking every last second. 

Spock’s a frayed ball of bliss, seeing stars and feeling weightless. He can feel himself spasming around Jim’s cock, and Jim’s barely a second behind. Jim grinds out his orgasm and fills Spock up, and Spock _loves_ the hot liquid that spills into him. It’s Jim’s, and he doesn’t want to let it go. 

But Jim does pull out, sweaty and panting, collapsing after on top of Spock, temporarily crushing the air out of Spock’s lungs. It’s worth it. 

Spock lifts a hand to his face and covers his eyes. He cried. During his first... but it was cathartic, and it’s out of him. He feels like a boulder’s been lifted from his chest, ironically replaced with the man who put it there in the first place. The tension and the weight trickle out of Spock’s body, while Jim nuzzles into his neck, repeating, “I’m okay. Because I have you.” He strokes Spock’s shoulder gently and he purrs, “It’ll all be okay.”

Spock says, “Yes.”

And he rolls suddenly onto his side, scooping Jim up in his arms and holding _so tight_ , before his _control_ sets back in. 

“ _I love you._ ”


End file.
